Chapter 18
Douglas was convinced he was going to be found guilty. He’d thought about faking a heart attack halfway through the trial. Against his barrister’s advice, he gave evidence and so did his wife, against her own daughter no less. His barrister had warned him, saying:
‘In my experience, Mr Mantell, a short deliberation period usually means a guilty verdict and, as I’ve advised you, a guilty verdict means prison. You’re looking at eight to ten years. You should pack a bag with the essentials.’
The jury took three days to think about the counts against him.
They sent notes to the judge. The first couple of notes were about the evidence they had seen and heard but the third note was about numbers.
They were not all in agreement. His barrister advised him that the judge would give a majority direction and explain to the jury that he could accept a decision where at least ten of them agreed on the verdict.
Douglas asked what would happen if only nine of the jury agreed that he was guilty.
The barrister had taken a deep breath and looked away as though the possibility disgusted her.
‘If only nine of the jury agree that you’re guilty or not guilty, that’s a hung jury and we will have to do it all again. A retrial.’
The jury had taken three days, seven hours and eighteen minutes to reach a verdict. One person wanted to convict him. Eleven couldn’t be sure.
Douglas walked unsteadily out of the pub and raised his face towards the night sky as he fished in the pocket of his thinning coat for his cigarettes.
He was drunk but he was a happy drunk. A free drunk.
The temperature had dropped, the pavement glistened with frost and there was a stillness that promised the arrival of snow.
Ashton canal was just around the corner and Douglas knew that as long as he followed the canal, he could find his way home.
He pulled up the collar of his coat, inserted the buttons into the wrong holes and began to walk.
‘Shit,’ Douglas said, slipping on the icy tarmac as he walked toward the steps that descended towards the canal.
He frantically grabbed the frosted metal of the railings and took a moment to straighten up.
The cold air had sobered him up a little bit.
He took hold of the railing and descended, pausing briefly when he saw that no light was emanating from the next two lampposts ahead of him and that his path was shrouded in darkness.
‘Stupid council,’ Douglas muttered, slipping again. He moved onto the small grassy patch that was close to the water’s edge.
‘You got to be careful, mate. The last thing you want is to end up in that water.’
Douglas turned towards the direction of the voice that was not Mancunian. The person walking towards him was dressed for the weather with a fitted navy parka, navy beanie on his head and leather gloves. The man lowered his head and pulled up his grey, striped scarf around his lower jaw.
‘I most definitely do not want that,’ Douglas sang as the man walked quickly past him, disappearing into the darkness.
‘Should have gone to my local,’ Douglas grumbled.
He looked around, unsure if he was heading in the right direction and the light flurry of snow that began to fall didn’t help.
He pulled up his sleeve and squinted at his watch but there wasn’t enough light to illuminate the cheap dial.
His head felt a bit clearer and he followed the man’s advice and stepped away from the water’s edge, continuing to walk along the icy path.
Someone bumped into him. Douglas stumbled and fell flat onto his back.
‘Aw, mate. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you,’ said the man. He leaned forward and reached out his arm. ‘Are you all right?’
Douglas begrudgingly accepted the man’s gloved hand and was pulled to his feet. ‘Fucking idiot,’ he said.
‘No need for that sort of language. I warned you to be careful.’
‘Be careful? You bumped into me. I could have … ow, what are you—’
Douglas looked into the eyes of the man who was squeezing his hand so tight he could have sworn he could feel his fingers break.
Despite what he told himself, Douglas was a physically weak man, and he couldn’t stop the man from forcefully grabbing his coat.
‘You are disgusting. A piece of fucking shit,’ said the stranger.
Douglas yelled out as the man turned him around and pushed him hard against a brick wall and let go.
Douglas fell hard onto dirty syringes and makeshift crack pipes made from Coke cans.
The man pulled a whimpering Douglas back up, turned him around and rammed his face into the black wall breaking his nose and his front teeth.
His knees buckled and his face was dragged across the wall, scraping the skin from his cheek.
The man turned Douglas around and pushed his hand against Douglas’s broken nose. ‘Look at me,’ he demanded.
‘No,’ Douglas squeaked as the nerves in his face ignited. The man pushed his thumb and forefinger against Douglas’s right eye and prised it open.
Embers of recognition briefly dulled Douglas’s pain as the man who’d assaulted him let go and lowered his scarf. Douglas put his hand to his face, his fingers sticking to his bloodied and shredded skin.
‘I know you,’ Douglas said.
Before his trial started, Douglas’s barrister had told him that the jury would be watching his every move and that he should keep looking forward.
He had done what he was told, he kept his gaze away from the jury, but he’d watched the courtroom and noticed who came in and out of the heavy wooden doors of Courtroom Seven. He knew this man.
‘You sicken me,’ the man said, unzipping his jacket and reaching into an inner pocket.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Douglas cried, his tears mixing with his blood as they ran down his face, stinging his broken skin.
The man’s laugh echoed in the silent night. ‘Is that what you tell yourself?’
Douglas felt the air leave his body when he saw the blade of a knife catch the light. The man pushed him and he landed heavily on his stomach.
‘You’re a disgusting, wicked pervert,’ the man said, digging the knife into Douglas’s flesh. ‘You destroyed her. Your own daughter.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Douglas screamed out again as the man plunged the knife into his left calf, his back, his right buttock and his neck. He was soon silent and still.
The man looked down at his gloved hands and grimaced.
Blood had seeped through the seams and his skin was sticking to the fake fur lining.
He dropped to his knees and grabbed a fistful of Douglas’s thinning grey hair.
The man held the blade against Douglas’s scalp and carefully ran the knife against the skin as though he was filleting a fish.
When he was done, he placed the piece of scalp in a plastic bag that he’d removed from his pocket.
He stood up, took hold of Douglas’s legs and dragged him to the water’s edge.
Douglas’s body hit the dark, freezing canal waters with a dull and heavy splash.
The man picked up the bloodied knife and dipped it into the water.
He kept his eyes on the spot where Douglas’s body had landed.
Once his knife was clean, he walked away satisfied that Douglas was at the bottom of the canal with the rest of the rubbish.